Carrie Pilby (26 page)

Is it true Petrov's actions aren't really hurting anyone? Are there things that hurt people only in theory and not in reality? Is Matt really hurting Shauna if she never finds out about his lovers? Is Sheryl Rubin hurting Daniel Leshko? Is Kara hurting anyone except herself when she smokes? Is the belief that these people are hurting each other based on societal taboos more than reality?

Petrov puts his chin in his hands. “My therapist,” he says finally, “is a psychoanalyst. Which, I admit, is a problem right there. But he's a smart man. He keeps trotting out the old line about Sheryl wanting me because I'm a father figure. As if a woman in her late twenties can't be attracted to a man in his
fifties. But you liked your professor, right? He was older. Doctors like to shove things into little boxes.”

I'm still processing the revelation that Petrov has a therapist.

“Do you think your therapist has a therapist, too?” I ask. “And do you think
he
has a therapist? And does his therapist have a therapist? For all you know, you could be your therapist's therapist's therapist's therapist's therapist's therapist's therapist's therapist's therapist's therapist's therapist's therapist's therapist's therapist. And the question is not what this daisy chain of doctors means for you, or for any of them; the question is, what does it mean for New York?”

Petrov and I look at each other.

Then, suddenly, he says, “We're out of time.”

I look at the clock behind me. It's true. We're five minutes over.

“I won't hold it against you,” I say. “I'll just dock five minutes from your next session.”

Petrov gets up unsteadily, as if finally climbing out of a train wreck. “This was an interesting session,” he says.

“You're telling
me.
”

“I suppose I'll see you next week.”

“I hope so,” I say. “I know you feel weird, but honestly, I learned a lot.”

“Sarcasm?”

“No, I'm serious,” I say. “I'm sure you learned things, too.”

“Yes,” he says. “I learned I should close the shades.”

 

Petrov can't tell anyone about our talk. He'll probably benefit from it somehow. Maybe it will get him thinking. Sheryl will benefit, too. Next time she sees him, he'll be rumpled and shaken up. And she'll get to play nurse to him, cooing all over him. Women love that.

On the other hand, I made him feel guilty. Is that good or bad? Is it going to make a difference? Will we, in the end, always follow our urges anyway?

As I head home, I relive the session in my mind, and I don't snap back to reality until I see a fluorescent sign in the coffee shop reading,
Now Open 24 Hours.

I walk in, and Milquetoast is sleeping sideways on the counter.

“Ronald!” I yell.

He springs up. “Cappuccino?”

“I don't drink 'chinos,” I say. “Those are pants. What's with the twenty-four-hour sign?”

His mouth is bumpy and out of whack, like a dog's chops. He wipes his arm across it. “Murray, our manager, it's his new idea. I was thinking of taking that shift. It pays a dollar an hour extra.”

I feel bad for him. Or anyone who does something they dislike just because it's a dollar more an hour. Whenever I see a window washer twenty stories in the air, I always hope he's a brave guy, not just a poor guy who needs extra cash. If I were that high up, I'd jump to end my pain quickly.

I want to help Ronald. I feel guilty for what my life is like, sleeping half the day and never having to pay rent. And then I look down on people who have to worry about these things. What is my problem?

I have one of those moments again where there's a sickness in the pit of my stomach, where I feel a bit hazy, where something is wrong, something big. I can wait until it goes away. But maybe it shouldn't. Maybe I should face it and solve it.

Do I know who I am? Can I face the parts I don't like? Am I judging people by black-and-white standards in order to justify my inability to talk to them? Ronald isn't brilliant. So what? I can still make an effort to talk to him.

“Have you seen Cy lately?” I ask Ronald.

“Once or twice,” he says. “Have you looked on the fire escape for him?”

“I've looked,” I say. “But I haven't seen him.”

“He's a nice person,” Ronald says. “Cy's really nice. He says hi to everyone in the shop when he comes in, even if he doesn't know them. But he only really has long discussions with me.”

I smile. “That sounds nice.”

“He keeps strange hours. I'll probably see him more when I work the lobster shift.”

“Lobster shift?” I say. “I thought it was called the graveyard shift.”

“I think they're the same thing,” he says.

“I wonder where those terms came from.”

“They don't have a lot to do with each other, lobsters and graveyards.” He laughs.

“Swing,” I say. “Swing shift. Wasn't that a game show? The twenty-five-thousand or half-a-million dollar pyramid, where they'd give you a list, like lobster, graveyard, swing, and you'd say, ‘Words that come before shift'?”

Ronald shrugs. “I don't have cable.”

“It's not on cable,” I say. “It was thirty years ago.”

“I wasn't born yet,” he says.

“I wasn't either, but they showed things in syndication when we were little, didn't they?”

“I don't remember,” Ronald says.

There's silence for a few seconds. But I'm not going to give up. I owe it to him—and to myself—to try harder with people.

“So, how are you doing in general?” I ask.

He grins. “Good,” he says. “I'm good. My parents might help me move to the basement apartment in our building. My own place.”

“That's great,” I say.

“Hey,” he says. “I know you're busy a lot, but do you ever want to…get coffee sometime?”

“Ronald,” I say, “this is a coffee shop, and I come in here all the time, and I never order coffee.”

“I just thought…” he says. Now I feel mean again.

“What else do you like to do,” I ask, “besides drink coffee?”

“Oh, I don't drink it,” he says. “I just thought
you
might. I don't like coffee. That's why Murray likes me working here. He knows I won't drink it.”

“Sort of like the eunuchs guarding the harems.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Do you like movies?”

“Sure, but I don't have cable.”

“I'm not talking about cable,” I say. “We could go see a movie someday. Or get lunch or dinner.”

“That sounds good!” Ronald says. “We could eat before my shift.”

I go for days without social contact, and it might be nice to have someone in the neighborhood to eat with. And I
would
like to know more about Ronald than just the basics we exchange when we bump into each other. He could even become, well, a friend.

“I'll visit you on your next lobster shift and we'll make plans,” I say.

“Great!” he says.

“Maybe I'll bring lobster,” I add.

He laughs. “Not live ones.”

“Have you ever seen
Annie Hall?
”

“I don't have cable.”

“It's—never mind. Well, I'll see you later.”

“Hey, Carrie.”

“Yeah?”

“You know, you're a nice person, too.”

This stops me. No, I'm not.

“I wish I was.”

“You are,” he says. “Of course you are. Just like Cy. Like that day you asked me why I was stacking the tumblers, or whenever you see me in the street, you ask me what's new at the coffee shop. You always talk to me. It's nice.”

“Well, thanks,” I say uncertainly. It is true that I never see anyone besides me or Cy bothering to talk to Ronald. But it seems like the least I can do for a neighbor. “You're a nice person, too.”

He grins.

“I'll see you soon,” I say.

 

I go to bed early that night, then wake up at four in the morning. I don't feel tired, so I push myself above my window and look down the street, toward the building where Sheryl and Dan live. I wonder if Petrov is inside her apartment. Maybe he's been avoiding the neighborhood since I caught him. But I still wonder.

I wonder if, across these power lines and pigeon-poop-encrusted cornices and light poles and antennae, Matt is sleeping across Shauna, his head on her body, and she's running her hand over his hair, comfortably believing everything in her life is right where she wants it. I wonder if Kara is curled up with some bartender or waitress, if Stephen and Pat are side by side, if Natto is with anyone. I know I'm not. Maybe for now, that's okay. Being with someone seems awfully confusing.

I get drowsy again and sleep until ten.

 

It's a week until Christmas. I don't have Matt and Shauna's home number, but I do know his last name, and he just happens to be listed. I call around two in the afternoon, and Shauna
answers. “Hello?” she says. She has a sweet voice. Which makes me feel bad all over.

I say I've worked with her former employers, and I tell her that they recommended her for a project I know about in my church. I tell her a little bit about it and give her Joe Natto's number. Then I call him right away. It sounds like he's munching on something.

“It's good to hear from you,” Natto says. “I'll be expecting her call. You know, I know you're probably a busy young lady—”

Ugh.

“And if I ever infringe on your free time, please let me know. But I really think you've got a lot of energy to bring to the church. I might be able to pay you for your time. Maybe even a salary. You could be a sort of PR consultant.”

A job? A real job? “Well, you don't have to—” I say.

“You're well educated. You have good ideas. You're smart, you read a lot, and you could represent the church well. You deserve pay for your experiences. Do you write? Are you a good editor? You said you do legal proofreading.”

“I think I'm okay.”

“I'm not trying to buy your loyalty. I know you're a cynic by nature, as all intelligent people should be. But what I'd need is a few hours of freelance work here and there. These sermons, it's hard to think of topics all the time. I mean, I know they're divinely inspired and all, but…”

I laugh. “God isn't giving you ideas fifty-two weeks a year.”

“Yes,” he says. “I could definitely use someone like you.”

I feel accepted and encouraged. I haven't felt that way in a long time.

Natto's line clicks. “Oh,” he says. “That's my other line.”

“Might be Shauna,” I say.

“Probably. I'll give you another call soon and we'll set up a time to go over some things.”

“Sounds good.”

“Bye,” he says. That's a blessing, for those who don't know.
Goodbye
is derived from “God be with ye.” Good b'ye. Get it?

I go to my dictionary, just to make sure it's in there, that I haven't been misguided all these years. It is. Then I look up
dictionary.
What it theoretically should say is, “You're in it, stupid.” But of course, the constraints of professional etiquette prohibit the authors from being direct. The definition is, and I'm not kidding, “A reference book having an alphabetical list of words, with information given for each word, including meaning, pronunciation, etymology, and often usage guidance.” Then, it's got three other definitions that basically say the same thing. I guess it doesn't want to give anyone short shrift in explaining itself. Or the lobster, graveyard or swing shrift.

That reminds me to look up
lobster shift.
But when I try to find it, it's not there.

What a gyp.

 

I have bought a tiny Christmas tree for my little living room, and it's by the doorway to the kitchen. I have strung bright lights around it, white as popcorn, and piled my father's wrapped gifts underneath. I've even hung two stockings on nails in the wall. I've filled them with candy, and even though I know what's in them, I can't wait to get them Christmas morning.

I've opened the sofa in the living room so that my father can sleep on it. I should probably make sure it's away from the front door so Dad won't wake up at night, wander outside, look into Petrov and Sheryl's window, and catch them playing Strip Dreydl.

I have sprayed fake snow on the Christmas tree, but I confess
it smells bad and I knew this and still I did it anyway. I won't get snowed again.

As I'm walking around in a toasty thick green sweater I bought, humming to myself, my father calls. “I have the place decorated,” I tell him. “I even bought stockings. I just need to get a comforter for the sofa bed.”

“Oh,” he says. “I didn't know if you'd want me to stay at your place, or in a hotel.”

“You should come and stay here. I want us to have a normal Christmas, like people all across the city. Even the Jews.”

“Okay. What time do you want me to come by?”

“Do you want me to make dinner,” I ask, “or do you want to order?”

“We could order,” he says. “I don't want to put you through the trouble.”

“If you show up around five, we can order food and then watch TV or a movie. I want us to wake up Christmas morning and open presents, like when I was little. And stockings.”

“Stockings.”

“I put your favorite caramels inside. And…well, it's a surprise.”

He laughs. “All right. It's great to hear you sounding so happy. I'll see you Friday.”

 

At my pre-Christmas visit to Petrov, I tell him, “My father said I sounded happy when I talked to him.”

“Is that bad?”

“No, but I don't like someone else judging my emotions. If I'm
not
happy, then he's making a judgment that doesn't ring true.”